


Terror

by MaladyOfReverie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Don’t copy to another site, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Night Terrors, Nightmares, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 15:48:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19467142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaladyOfReverie/pseuds/MaladyOfReverie
Summary: Mycroft probably should have mentioned...





	Terror

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StarsAndStitches](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsAndStitches/gifts).



>   
> 

Mycroft was lost in a dense, fog-like haze that felt like a Bentley had been on his chest for days. It stole the colour straight out of the light, and left the world in black and white. He walked for hours, for miles it seems, in an inescapable wasteland of his dreams. And when his legs were weak, and his feet too sore, and he felt that he couldn’t walk another step more, a face came out of the sea of blur, and offered him a smile, warm and pure.

‘Gregory?’ Mycroft tried desperately to say, but the sound he found simply blew away.

The man turned around, into the faceless crowd, and soon he was fading. Mycroft screamed for him not to leave, but in a moment he was just part of the shading. He hurried through clouds and mist and dust, but found no one to hold onto, and no one to trust.

Days Mycroft walked, he searched for his lost love, but it was like trying to feel skin through a thick glove. And soon the colourless landscape began to lose light, and Mycroft was trapped in an eternal night.

  


Mycroft woke with his head upon his desk, small beads of sweat on his face. According to the clock, overworking the night prior had resulted in him sleeping in to 7:30 am. The office was unusually warm, and his stomach twisted up as a result; only one person ever set the heat this high. His heart started beating fast, faster. Sweat. More sweat. Terror began to swell inside of him.

‘Greg!’ he called out, ‘Gregory!?’

Soon Greg rushed through the door, a small burn evident on his right thumb. Mycroft must have distracted him from cooking or making coffee.

‘What is it, Darling? What’s wrong?’

Mycroft reached for his lover, and Greg quickly stepped around the desk and wrapped his trembling body tightly in his arms.

‘Gre- I had a night… I had a terrible dream; I you you — I was scared and you left and I could- I ’nt find you,’ Mycroft’s voice shook, and his body fought his brain. Part of his head was still lost in the wasteland, his powerful mind not yet completely woken from the elaborate fantasy that it had constructed. His fingers twitched and held on desperately to Greg’s shirt.

Mycroft’s behaviour had Greg slightly surprised and anxious, but John had already warned him that he may face this. Apparently the Holmes were prone to terrible, detailed night terrors. Two extremely powerful minds, often in use of mind palaces and who knows what other impressive habits, were capable of imagining just about anything with intense amounts of realism. John had been with Sherlock through six or seven by then, and had told Greg that once, after working nearly a week without sleep on a particularly grim case, Sherlock had been certain that for the past two months Molly had been dead, and that it had been his fault… unforgivably his fault. John was living at 221b alone, on the one condition (set by Mrs Hudson) that Sherlock never be allowed in the flat. John had agreed without thought, and Sherlock was on the streets for a good month and a half, before agreeing to move in with Mycroft. John said that it took him two days to calm Sherlock down completely, and restore his confidence that this was the real world. Greg was worried about where Mycroft might have been, how long he might have been, what Greg might have been there. He had had his fair share of awful dreams, but none that would impact his confidence in Mycroft. He could only pray that Mycroft wouldn’t push him away.

‘Myc, it’s okay. It’s okay. Just breathe. Talk to me, slowly. It’s okay.’

Greg gently lifted Mycroft and sat him down on the floor alongside him, so that he could pull him against his body, and cradle him. Greg ran his fingers through his lover’s hair and hummed quietly; he swayed them rhythmically and Mycroft slowly shook less and less, and breathed slower and slower, until his heart had slowed back down and he was able to look at Greg with damp eyes. Greg’s eyes glowed warmly back.

‘What’s wrong, Darling? A bad dream, was it?’

Mycroft nodded. ‘Yes. I was all alone, and I tried to get away, but there was nothing to escape, and there was nowhere to go. And you found me, but you left me, and I couldn’t find my way back to you, and then it became so dark-’

Greg smiled and laughed a bit, ‘Mycroft, I am not going anywhere,’ he assured, taking Mycroft’s head in his hand and holding it against his neck, ‘I am not going anywhere. It was just a nightmare.’

‘Gregory, I am- your hand.’

Greg flexed it open and shut, looking at the burn on his thumb. ‘It’s shit, yeah. Hurts. Not too bad, nothing to worry over.’

‘What happened?’

‘Was making you some tea, thought you might feel like some when you woke up… didn’t expect you to wake up like this. Think it would do you good?’

Mycroft nodded.

Greg began to stand up. ‘Do you want to stand? If not, I will bring a cup and a blanket. You can wait here.’

‘No!’ Mycroft shrieked.

The hair on Greg’s arms stood on end, his breath hitched.

‘No,’ Mycroft said calmly, and slowly wrapped his hands around Greg’s thick forearm. ‘I don’t want to be a burden. Might we just stay here? Just for a moment more.’ He gently pulled Greg back to him, hoping he would decide to sit down again.

Greg smiled, though his worry made it difficult, and his eyes left it nothing more than an unconvincing tightening of his lips. Mycroft watched Greg’s hands as they wrapped around him from behind, and he laid them over his, resting their fingers on Mycroft’s abdomen. He pushed his face into Mycroft’s neck and Mycroft was soothed by the warm breath on his skin, and the rise and fall of Greg’s chest against his back. The embrace was warm and tight, and as he often received from Greg, everything that he needed. Greg felt the tension in Mycroft’s body releasing, muscle by muscle. And as it did, so did Greg’s, and feeling that Mycroft’s would release a little more, and then Greg again, continuing until their eyes felt heavy and their bodies collapsed onto the floor and wrapped around one another, sharing a dreamless sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> A commission won by StarsAndStitches, who was so kind as to donate to The Trussell Trust for Rupert Graves Birthday Project. Thank you so much for your patience, and I apologise for the wait. I hope that you like it.


End file.
